My Propriety For The Heart Of A Mad Hatter
by Nellie87
Summary: Alice is forced to ponder whether it's worth her propriety for one night with a mad man... a choice that is no choice at all when love is involved. First in a series of three.


The Champion

(My Propriety For The Heart Of A Mad Hatter)

Alice could hear the pacing outside the door to her room, and it scared her. Not because she didn't know who it was (She did. Every so often he would stop, and mutter, before continuing his pacing.), but because she knew what he wanted. She'd admitted she cared for him... _loved_ him. They'd kissed on the balcony, and he'd even held her hand under the table through dinner. But those things were like going without corset and stockings, while this... this would be like turning up to a garden party without a single stitch on.

She took a deep breath, smoothed down the front of her nightdress, and resumed her own pacing. The plush carpet absorbed her anxious footsteps, and she almost wished the hallway itself were carpeted instead of cold white stone that reported every step of the Hatter's to her ears. Then her treacherous heart and body wouldn't be able to keep her from sleep with their yearning for what was being offered by his presence.

Not for the first time she wondered if her assumption was entirely incorrect. Perhaps he wanted to talk but was loathe to wake her, should she already be sleeping. Perhaps. But she wasn't naive. A man did not call on a lady in the dead of night without a chaperone to _talk_, and she wasn't oblivious to what such clandestine rendezvous generally entailed, either. The thought made her heart race, no matter how sternly she tried to apply logic to the situation. It was _entirely_ improper, the kind of thing that would incite scandal beyond even her wildest imaginings.

That thought gave her pause. She shifted the cooling teapot on the delicate little supper table, adjusted the teacups on their saucers, and sat down on the cushioned chair that faced the door. Beneath it the sliver of light from the hall was interrupted at regular intervals.

She took another deep breath, tried and failed to steady the hummingbird beat of her heart. Surely scandal belonged in that oh-so-distant world above, not here, not in the place where animals could talk and Queens could bake with wishful thinking. Where it felt like the best of all ideas to invite a man she barely knew, but who made her feel like throwing propriety out the window completely, into her bedroom late at night while she was barely dressed.

The sudden knock on the door startled her, the jerk of her wrist knocking over the nearest teacup with a clatter.

Time stopped.

Anger that she hadn't been allowed to make the decision on her own came first. Then horror that she couldn't even pretend to be sleeping now she had made such a racket with the china. Despair at having to choose at all. Excitement had been there all along, undeniable (oh, she wished she could deny it) in the rising flush of her skin and the tight knots her stomach was busy tying itself into.

Finally she righted the teacup and rose for the door, not before tightening the top ribbon of her nightdress in some final attempt to convince herself she wasn't being a complete trollop.

The doorknob was warm to the touch and turned with far too much ease, opening without even a creak.

As expected, the Hatter stood there, hat held humbly before him as if he were a perfect gentleman and this were a perfectly normal house call. She'd felt overpowered by emotions for the last half hour, but those were nothing compared to the turbulent storm of feeling that thundered through her now.

Out of pure habitual instinct she bobbed a small curtsey. "Hatter." What else could she even say?

"Alice. I do hope I didn't wake you. I can go you know. If you were sleeping. I don't want to be a bo—"

She suddenly knew the exact right thing to say. "Actually, I was about to have tea. Would you like some?"

Tarrant nodded seriously, as if the invitation were of the gravest import. "I would like that very much."

As he stepped over the threshold Alice felt a sense of calm finality slide over her. A choice had been made. Maybe not _that_ choice, not quite yet, but almost. Soon.

She resumed her chair at the supper table and watched with nervous eyes as Tarrant set his hat on the ivory bureau before taking the seat opposite her. It was a little dim, light enough streaming in from the full moon through the open balcony doors, but she could have sworn his eyes were a distinctly _ruddier_ shade of green than she remembered them being.

To her great relief her hands only trembled a little as she poured the tea. "It's a little cold, I'm afraid."

He watched her with single-minded intensity until she had filled and lifted her own cup. "Some things are best had cold," he said as she gulped down a mouthful. "Tea isn't _generally_ one of them, but I'm warm enough with you here that it doesn't bother me terribly much."

Alice wasn't sure what to say to that, distracted as she was by the feel of his legs pressing against her bare ones beneath the table. She took another mouthful of cold tea and wondered if perhaps simply kissing him rather than continuing the charade of conversation would be a good idea, regardless of what scandalous territory such an action might lead to.

"Tomorrow is the Frabjous Day," he continued, toying with the handle of his cup but not lifting it.

Alice frowned. As if she could forget. "I know."

He muttered something she couldn't quite catch as he swiftly lifted his cup and buried his nose in it. She was certain at least half the words were that fey Outlandish, but a few managed to stand out.

"Mirana said? What did she say?"

The Hatter's teacup broke when it hit the table, the tea a dark stain slowly creeping over the snowy white tablecloth. "Nothing. A very significant kind of nothing." He stood quickly, even his hat forgotten on the bureau as he moved toward the door. "I'm sorry I troubled you."

Alice followed, grabbed his wrist as he reached for the knob. He grabbed _her_ other wrist with his free hand in return, glaring down at her with dark eyes, both of them breathing hard.

_Why had she done that?_ When it would have been so easy to just let him leave?

His fingers tightened on her wrist and he pulled, closing the distance between them. Only a whisper separated them until he bent his head and kissed her, hard, nothing like the coy kisses on the balcony. In that instant Alice knew two things: that there were coy kisses and then there were _real_ kisses, and that desperation tasted like bergamot and thyme.

She started as his hands traced down her ribs to the curve of her waist, every perfect flaw of his hands reaching her skin through the thin fabric of her nightdress. It wasn't as if nobody had ever touched her in such a fashion before; any number of forgettable gentlemen had held her waist just so as they danced. But this touch... _his_ touch... was something entirely more intimate. The grip on her waist tightened as he broke the kiss and laid his face against her hair. The soft gesture belied the urgency hinted at by the hard press of his fingers against her waist.

"Say aye or say nay, Alice," he said, breath hot on her temple. "Say_ mo chuidse _or not."

Her heart erupted like a bird trying to beat its way out of her chest, crying _aye, aye, aye_!, even if she _didn't_ know what the second thing he had said was. It didn't matter. Very slowly, sure she would break from the indecision inside, she laid her hands on either side of his face and tilted her head up to look at him.

_Aye, aye, aye!_

She was certain now; his eyes _were_ that ruddy rust colour they only seemed to go when he was particularly inflamed by something. Which meant...

Alice was certain she blushed right to the roots of her hair. Her throat worked, unable to voice the words she so desperately wanted to say. Saying it would make them real, tangible, unable to take back. And yet as she looked at him, felt the thimble on his left hand dig into her hip and his heart race against hers, she knew he was as close to breaking as she was.

"Aye." The word was little more than a whisper, barely a mouthing of the word. But it was there, and it was real, and she couldn't take it back and didn't _want_ to take it back and it was far too late anyways as his eyes brightened and he spun her _just so_, just as he had tossed his hat with her upon it. The soft edge of the bed hit her calves and she tumbled back, breathless.

She propped herself on her elbows, about to sit up.

"Stay," he barked, the rough brogue of his voice leaving no room to broach protest.

The room was filled with the soft sound of clothing being discarded, and after what seemed like the longest of intervals she felt his weight on the bed. He knelt straddled her, a looming shadow against the moonlight, and she felt her heart skip twice in fear. Then he drew his fingers down her arms where they rested above her head, across her shoulders and throat, each warm touch easing her heart. He plucked absently at the ribbon she had pulled so tight at the top of her nightdress, frowned, and cursed.

Despite herself, despite all the nervous anticipation paralysing her, Alice laughed.

"This is entirely unacceptable," Tarrant muttered, dropping his hands to either side of her shoulders and leaning down to kiss her into silence. "Such a completely wretched garment." He leaned down further, worrying at the offending ribbon with his teeth until it came loose. Taking it in hand he examined it with some consternation for a moment, the entirely serious cast of his face making Alice want to take it in her hands and kiss him and promise never to tie knots in her ribbons ever again. Before she could act upon the impulse however he slid the ribbon around her neck, the silk a stark contrast to the texture of his worn and bandaged fingers, and tied it in a loose bow. "There. Much better." He tugged at the shoulders of the offensive item of clothing and she wriggled obligingly so it could pulled off and tossed across the room. (Some oddly reflective part of her noted that he did _so_ enjoy throwing things, be it tea parties or hats or her undergarments. Perhaps it was Thackery's bad influence.)

Suddenly shy she closed her eyes. The act was futile, she knew, and entirely ineffective for concealing her nakedness. And she knew _he_ wouldn't be closing his eyes. The thought set her heart to pounding all over again.

If he noticed, he didn't say anything. Didn't say anything at all as he settled slowly over her, as if giving her time to protest, until his weight pressed her down into the mattress and she could feel his breath on her face.

"Alice?" That rough brogue again as his fingers fisted in her hair, and she opened her eyes to see his were again rimmed in red.

She took a deep breath, slid her hands up his spine to his shoulders, felt him shiver. Time was kind, giving her a longer moment than moments most often tended to be. She shifted her legs so he lay more comfortably between them, and finally realised that even with the longest of long moments to ready herself it would never, ever be enough.

"I'm scared," she admitted softly, and because she was watching this time she saw the very moment the green came back to his eyes.

"So am I."

Everything happened at once. The words and the kiss and the thrust that made her cry out and scrabble for purchase against his shoulders as she arched into him and he gasped her name. It was the hardest and the easiest and the most perfectly _right_ thing she had ever done, and she knew that _this_, of all the moments, even if she didn't get to keep a single other one from her time in Underland, _this_ was the one she wanted to keep forever.

****

Sunlight streamed through the balcony doors, along with the rising sound of a crowd somewhere below. Alice groaned, and threw out a hand for another pillow to cover her eyes.

"Ow!" Her eyes flew open as her arm met with painfully sharp resistance. Fully awake now, she sat up slowly, drawing up the pale sheet to cover her breasts.

Tarrant was gone. Her mouth went dry as the realisation hit her, and she suddenly felt very, very foolish. She wasn't sure what she had expected... wasn't even sure she _should_ have expected. But certainly it wasn't this. Surely if a man cared for a woman he didn't bed her and then—

The source of her sharp wakeup caught her eye, glinting on the pillow beside hers. Two long hatpins had been used to fasten a folded piece of paper to the fabric. Heart in throat she reached out, terrified of what kind of words must be contained therein that he wouldn't want to say them to her face.

As she slid the pins free the paper dropped heavily to the bed and the ribbon that must have come loose from her neck during the night slid out, weighted by the tarnished silver key that was now tied to the centre of it. Tentative joy welled up inside, solidified as she lifted and shook out the note. There, in surprising elegant penmanship, were two words:

_You're late_.

She picked up the ribbon and tied it once more around her neck, the small key nestling at the hollow of her throat. Alice knew that key, had seen it on his coat a hundred times before. Combined with the note, it told her all she needed to know.

Throwing back the sheet she scrambled for her clothes, noting with a frown of confusion that the Hatter had also left his trousers draped over the back of her chair.

She might be late, but at least _she _took the time to get properly dressed before battle. After all, there was a Jabberwock to slay. Underland needed her. _He_ needed her.

And for him, she'd put on the shining armour and face her destiny.


End file.
